Protocol
by Janizary
Summary: DragonStar Rising / Living Steel: Ben Carson short - Ed Kammert transcription


_A/N: Another Ed Kammert transcription. See _The Dogmen _or_ Truth _for details._

_Setting: DragonStar Rising / Living Steel / Rhand: 2349 (go look it up)_

_Again, I did NOT write this. It is posted by permission of the "Circle of Friends" so they (we) can come visit his stories and join together in remembrance. More will follow, and will be noted as to which of those posted are "Eddie's". Transcribed as it was written. Any spelling or grammar items are from the original paper form (or my clumsy fingers)._

___Disclaimer: I own no rights to DragonStar Rising, Phoenix Command, Living Steel or L.E.G. If I did, certain LS supplements would have been posted for free on the internet, not moldering in certain peoples underwear drawers (the wooden kind, not the short pants themselves...). Ben Carson, and anyone else mentioned in the quotes are the intellectual property of their respective owners.___

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**Protocol**

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"_Target in scope_." The voice was low and tinny in the lieutenant's ear. _Don't think about it. The implant's new, but you've been training thoroughly._

"ID it and confirm," he said softly, confident that the mastoid microphone would transmit.

"_Target in scope_." Not the proper response.

"ID it and confirm, trooper. Protocol." The bushes hid his view of the Kill Zone, but his men would keep him informed. They were out there, spread over two acres of land, positioned and prepped for just this moment. Within minutes, the band of renegade Bondsmen would reenter the field, and Endswhistle would once again be safe for the 'Guild. But, there were procedures to follow.

"_Target in scope_."

Lieutenant Guillaume d'Marcet, 179th Hussar Ranger/Kappa Psi, looked at his radio receiver. The receiver and transmitter that were embedded in his skull freed his hands up, but only had a 10 meter range. The radio that was in front of him acted as a repeater, scrambler, de-scrambler, and operator. By readouts, he could tell who was addressing him.

"Damnit, Zabrowski. Procedure and protocol. ID your target and confirm." _Damned Landcaste_. He came very close to actually vocalizing that last. He'd have Zabrowski's stripes for this…insubordination. There was nothing left to call it.

Silence.

Silence.

"_Target ID'd and confirmed. Posit on enemy position_."

Sigh. Sugar got good results, but an occasional stick helped. "Alright. Don't fire until my say so. Repeat, do not…" _Pop_.

From twelve feet away, a shadow crawled forth from the bush. A grotesque figure, half-man, half-bush. In it's right hand (branch?) was a small pistol, lengthened beyond its means by a silencer. It made it's way to the radio.

Looking quickly over the controls, he ascertained the number of troopers in the line. Fifteen. Four of them were down, not counting the plebe officer. He knew that for a fact.

He looked at the lieutenant's face. Twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. Young. Stupid. If he had been a man of witty retorts, he might have said, "Sorry about the early shot, sir, but…" _Damn_, he smiled ruefully. _Can't even come up with them when I have the time_.

He shrugged out of his bush suit. Underneath it was a Starguild Starmarine field suit. He removed a small box from his shoulder pocket. Opening the box and finding it in order, his attention turned to the radio. Within minutes, the contents of the box were merged with the interior of the radio.

He flipped a switch inside the radio, and spoke into his own throat mike.

"Eagle, this is Houston. You have a positive go. Watch your azimuth, and enjoy the landing." He paused.

"That's one small step for man…" Code signal. He flipped another switch inside the radio.

The remaining eleven Landcaste troopers began to howl in pain, clawing their earpieces away from their high-frequency shattered ears. From their hiding spots 29 Bondsmen fired their weapons. Within moments, it was over.

"…and one giant leap for mankind." Mission successful. He flipped two more switches, and the insides of the radio began to smoke. No evidence.

Taking the lieutenant's sidearm, he donned the bush-suit again. He made one stop, thirty feet from the lieutenant, on the opposite side of where he had fired from, to pick up his radio-jammer and Zabrowski's original radio. At least, in the communications game, the Sworder's still were better equipped.

_Sorry, Sir, but if was a better non-com, one who paid attention to protocol and procedure, I would have asked permission to shoot you_. Over long, too clunky, but it brought a smile to Ben Carson's lips.

3 Aug, 2180  
>Corsican's Meadow, Alpurnia<br>Endswhistle (Sigma Novus, A-379)

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**~LS~LS~LS~LS~LS~LS~**

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_Transcribed in loving memory of Edward Kammert, who penned this short on an unknown day in 1996._  
><em>rrk – 128/09_


End file.
